Biting the Wind
by 1mor3day
Summary: A second-person narrative of an individual who is intent on destroying Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

_Greetings. This is my first ever fanfic. I would like it if you would please be honest in your reviews. If you hate it, let me know _why._ I know where this is going, so if you desire it I will continue. Though I believe it could stand alone as it is. Thank you in advance for any advice or compliments._

When you stand in the room, hands slick and arms weak from your efforts, you allow a slight smile to appear from the depths. You hardly ever smile. Smiles betray joy. And joy is a word, a feeling and a place that has occurred very rarely in your life. So rarely in fact that you almost wonder what it is that you are feeling.

Joy however, has decided to flicker a tiny bit. To move and brighten from what you have done. And what you have done is a testament to what he has done. You are almost proud of him. Almost. You are almost proud of him because without him, you would never be standing here.

The room you are in is tiny. And bare. And cold. It is the type of room you seek out when you actually need a one. Perhaps that is why joy decided to leap up from its degraded pit. Perhaps because, in the end, it really was wonderful. Perfect.

It took such a long time to get here. Weeks in fact. Weeks to prepare. Weeks to watch, listen and become. Weeks to first stand next to the shadows, than weeks to fall in line with them. How many weeks did take to become a shadow? How many?

You haven't much time really. You realize that as you breath. As you move. As you blink. You don't want to leave. Leaving would break that joy. You think that this day. This place is the only time joy will appear.

But you don't mind. Really, for what is to come. You don't mind.

You close your eyes. You breath in. Such a deep breath. A breath to take in this day. A breath to place all the moments in this room upon your memory. You know what will come. You know time is calling you. But oh, oh you have so much more to do. And yes, what will come will taste so extraordinary. But this place? It is your alter.

You don't even need to look to see the blood. How did it taste? Of smoke. Your father once said it tasted sweet. You must disagree. Smoke. It tastes of smoke.

You turn. You finally have to turn. Turn and place the card on the table. The card on the table in the room that is your alter. Your alter to him.

You've left him a gift. Three gifts in fact. A generation. An entire generation. Waiting for him.

But what awaits him? Ah, the card. The card will lead him. It will lead him to his own alter.

For you know that the man that walks with him. Laughs. Smiles. Helps. Helps? Not you. He didn't help you. That man. That man is his alter. His alter of, of what really? You don't know. But you know what it will do to him.

You look at the card one last time.

Sherlock Holmes. You have written it so carefully. What an odd name really. An odd name for an odd man. You let the smile appear again. And you leave. You finally leave.

Sherlock Holmes. You let the name sing in your memories. Sherlock Holmes will find his Watson. You are sure of that. But how? How will he find him? Of that even you don't know. For you just left Watson. And when you left him, he broke the quiet of what used to be your favorite spot. It was as if silence had found its voice. And it was screaming


	2. Chapter 2

_I want to thank you for your very kind reviews. I honestly never thought I would get such a response. Once again, if you decide to grace this little story with a review, I ask that you be honest in your critique. Thank you._

Once, when you were very, very small, a dog appeared in the garden of your home. It was just a scrap of a thing. Missing an eye and with one leg shorter than the others. The dog was, quite frankly, the most pathetic thing you had ever seen.

However, you knew what your father would do with it. You knew that he would grab it by the scruff of its neck and carry it to the garden shed. A rock would be waiting. And a sound like hard candy falling on the pavement followed by a yelp would flow out of the shed. A part of you did not want that to happen. Did not want to hear that noise. But another part. A part that was growing, latching on to you, that part did want to hear that noise. That part wanted to see that rock fall.

But your father never took the rock to the dog. Instead, he tied the dog up to the largest tree in the garden. He asked you to help him build the dog a house. And you learned to feed the dog. And fill its bowl with water. You pet it. You threw sticks for it. You took old rags and tied them up and let the dog tug and chew them.

Several years later, the dog died. It was an almost silent death. Under that great tree. With only the wind to sing it to sleep.

Ever since that time, you have always noticed dogs. If you can, you toss them the core of the apple you are eating. Dogs, you could say, are your friends. They are your only friends really. In fact, you know very well that if you pick the right dog. If you pick the dog that holds its tail high. That has other dogs following it. The dog that dashes in front of horses. The dog that grabs at ladies skirts. That dog. If you pick that dog, and feed it enough to keep it alive. If you do not kick it. That dog will serve you well. That dog will keep its eyes, its nose and its lean and muscular body following the target you pick. And if you keep that dog hungry? Angry? Oh, that dog will tug at the lead, will drool and snarl and growl. That dog will keep a man in his place.

The fact that you have three such dogs. Three dogs that are angry, tired and hungry. Three dogs that follow your every command. The fact that you have three, oh it is very very convenient. Especially when you have a man that must be kept in his place. A man that you worked so hard to capture. A man who is a doctor.


	3. Chapter 3

Resistance. At some point in your life, a person, of who you have no remembrance, stated that one of your greatest assets was resistance.

No matter how tempting something was, the individual had stated, no matter its draw, if you had to, you could resist it.

Your greatest asset was making you a bit unnerved at this point in time. It made you restless.

Everything within you wants to walk past "" lodgings. It is so easy for you to become a forgettable figure. You can make yourself one with the streets and smoke. Not invisible, not a shadow. No, not this time. But just. Just. Just a person. Just a walker amongst the mass of people.

You are quite aware, that he is, most likely hunting the streets.

And yet, you know. You know that he could be staring out of that window of his. The distinct profile merging with the panes of glass.

That keeps you from walking down Baker Street. The simple matter of it is, you do not want him to see you. For his eyes could pass over the top of your head.

But you don't want that. You want nothing of that man-who could be above in his lodgings-to see any part of you.

You don't want him to see the shape of your shoulders, the length of your legs. Nothing.

You want him to see nothing until he has seen the destruction of the Doctor.

For then, then you will simply knock on his door and present yourself to him.

Then madness perhaps, the anger without a doubt and if you are lucky the destruction of grief. You want to see it. You want to see it as he lunges for you.

And as you laugh.


	4. Chapter 4

_Amazing. I still cannot believe how kind and helpful all of your reviews and PMs are. Thank you_

Silence.

Silence? No. No, almost silence.

Is there such a thing as almost silence?

There must be. For it is almost silent.

Panting. You can hear panting.

Oh, oh. What delight. Your thumb grazes across your left eyebrow. Then it moves to your nose.

You have an itch.

It must be this bush.

Sitting in this bush. Is it a bush? You have no idea what it is.

It's bushy, you think.

Really, when you have read "bushy" the thing you are sitting behind does fit that very description

And, it has many short branches and green things sticking out of it.

Itchy branches with green things sticking out of it.

It must be a bush.

How. How. Goodness, how your father would say you are becoming predictable.

So predictable. Why? Well, it would be written in a book wouldn't it?

"...hiding behind a bush..."

But you are not hiding.

"...watching behind a bush..."

Yes you are watching.

And listening.

Your dogs are panting. Not growling.

Have they finished?

Has the great Doctor reached out just far enough? Just far enough so they could grab onto his wrist?

If one wrist was grabbed, well then. Two could be grabbed.

And they could tug. For you left just enough...just enough that when they pulled hard enough. They could truly get to him.

Have they?

Have they gotten to him?


	5. Chapter 5

_**No excuse for the lateness of this chapter. I am back though. Chapters will-if you like-appear every week. Thank you to all my reviewers. Please, let me know truthfully what you think of this work.**_

You peek over the bush.

Beyond you, is the slumped form of Dr. John H. Watson.

The dogs, now lying, have relaxed. The largest dog has placed its head upon his paws. The youngest is alert. It sniffs the air. Smelling you, it's tail begins to beat the ground, raising thin clouds of dust.

When you were just a little thing, you chose this spot. When you found it, children would run through the grass and climb the trees.

But you wanted it for your own.

One of the many things your father taught you was how to make your voice seem as if it was standing beneath, above, behind and away from you.

So, one day, you climbed the largest tree here. You sat for hours. Every time another child would appear, you would moan. Or laugh. Or even scream.

It took time. But soon, soon the children were terrified of your spot. They would cry when their mothers would take them to the place. Even threats from their fathers, even beatings would not convince them to walk in the park. Soon, your park became legend. The bravest and oldest boys would climb down windows in the blackness. They would point and push. They would bribe.

But no child ever strayed into your place.

Not a one.

So it was the perfect place for destruction.

The perfect place for death.

What was even more perfect? The fact that Sherlock Holmes had walked by this very park twice.

Twice.

Twice he had walked by as his friend struggled.

And now, whatever had become of his friend?

The dogs know you. They know you brought food.

And so, you stand. You climb over the bush. You walk towards your dogs. You want to whistle.

You want to whistle because a slumped body means an injured body.

When you reach Dr. John. H. Watson, you sniff. You lower your head like the dogs you care for.

And you sniff.

The pool of blood beneath the body is very fresh. It is very large.

You toss the scraps of meat to the three animals. You have trained them very well. They do not fight. They each take a portion, turn and eat. You are very proud of this.

You are also very proud of the form beneath your feet.

For it still breaths.


End file.
